


Fast Shuffle (Or: One Time Eames Made His Kidnappers Regret Their Thoughtless Actions and Arthur Helped)

by darksylvia



Series: Rescuers with Benefits [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BAMF Arthur (Inception), BAMF Eames, Guns, Kidnapping, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 10:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14932122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darksylvia/pseuds/darksylvia
Summary: Eames is a BAMF (and aprofessional, thank you very much.)





	Fast Shuffle (Or: One Time Eames Made His Kidnappers Regret Their Thoughtless Actions and Arthur Helped)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this like, four years ago, was unable to think of a last line, and then forgot about it. It's kind of a loose series wherein Arthur and Eames save each other a lot and or don't need saving in particular but, being somewhat attached to each other, don't take kindly to other people attempting to off one of them.
> 
> It was loosely based off of this prompt in the kink meme: http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/12989.html?thread=29177277#t29177277
> 
> I have one more that goes with it, which I will post shortly, but I didn't finish the other episodes.

Eames was not having a good morning. He'd come straight off a job in Australia and gotten into town that evening after nearly twenty four hours of travel. His next job started in the morning. It had been all he could do to coherently check into his hotel room and fall into bed. 

At 3am he'd been woken from a sound sleep by some ruffians waving pistols around and wearing ski masks. They'd hustled him out of his hotel room into a car. He had, of course, groggily resisted, earning him several punches to the face and a length of rope around his wrists.

Almost worse than that, he was hungry. He'd been so tired the night before that he'd taken sleep over food, and now he was regretting that decision. He was also regretting the decision not to sleep with his pistol under his pillow. Jet lag was no excuse for getting taken unawares. He allowed himself nearly five full seconds of self-disgust before he pulled himself together and started assessing his situation like the professional he actually was, most of the time.

There were five of them, all burley and thick-necked, and they smelled of ex-military for hire. Five was a bit flattering, really. Also very inconvenient. He resigned himself to a certain amount of personal physical damage.

They threw him in the trunk of a shiny new Audi, almost certainly a rental. The trunk was bare and the lining was clean and as soon as they slammed the lid he knew for sure he wasn't dealing with professionals. Or at least, not very good ones. He managed to free his wrists with only a minimal amount of rope burn, and then it took a bit of scrabbling to locate the trunk release cable. Unfortunately, by that point they were already moving quite fast and Eames preferred not to jump from a moving vehicle unless it was his last option. He rather thought they'd gotten on the freeway for a brief time, and then come off again, when he started being tossed around like a very heavy rag doll. Unmaintained roads probably indicated they'd taken him somewhere far out of the city where there would be no one to hear his screams. Or screams in general, for that matter.

He waited. And he waited. _Damn_ he was hungry. 

Eames felt the world coast to a stop and the weight of the five men shifting in the interior as they climbed out. He breathed slow and shallow, heard their footfalls as two of them came around to the trunk door, and he waited for that one perfect moment before giving the trunk cable a sharp tug and slamming the door open, catching both of the men in the face. He honestly hadn't been expecting to get them both. _Definitely_ not practiced kidnappers. 

(In some ways, that was worse. There was always a greater chance of someone getting nervous and loosing stray bullets when dealing with amateurs. But never let it be said that Eames didn't know how to take advantage of an unexpected situation.)

He punch one out while they were still reeling and managed to knock the other to the ground with his feet as he vaulted out of the trunk. The others were on their way around the car by then. Eames plucked up the pistols that goons number one and two had been carrying and took cover around the far side of the car. A quick check showed both guns were loaded, no rounds fired. He switched off the safety catch on both and listened hard, judging the third and fourth's position by footfall. 

He pushed out a steady breath, rose from his crouch, and fired. One kidnapper dropped to the ground dead as Eames ducked down again. He could hear the fourth swear and Eames carefully lowered himself to peek under the car. He took aim and fired a bullet into the fourth abductor's ankle, who went down with a cry and a dull thud.

There had been a fifth.

Above his head, there was the unsettling click of a bullet entering the chamber. It was a sound that, at this close proximity, never failed to make Eames' stomach drop out from under him. He carefully set his pistols down before craning his neck up. His fifth and final abductor had a pistol pointed between Eames' eyes, and an absolutely horrendous Robert Goulet moustache. Eames did not flinch - over either detail - but it was a very near thing. He'd stared at his own death quite a few times, real and dreamed. He knew it was coming at some point, and if that was what this was--

"Stand up," Moustache commanded. Eames complied, slowly, hands up.

"What say we talk this through like civilized men?" tried Eames, stretching the sentence out until it was slow and indolently British.

Moustache didn't say anything, and before Eames could think of another tactic, his wrists were seized, yanked down and behind. He felt the brush of a nylon rope being wound around his wrists. It seemed henchman number two had recovered. Eames did not like his chances tied up without a nice long car ride to work himself free, and judging by how tolerant they'd been so far, he felt he had reason to hope they wanted him alive, so he might not actually get shot. It was a bit higher of a risk than he generally liked, but he had the benefit of not having a lot of time to think about it. 

He wrenched himself forward and to the right, fast enough that he'd taken Moustache to the ground with him before he could fire a shot off. This earned him a dislocated shoulder, as henchman number two lost his grip on the rope. The broken finger from where he'd caught himself gained him the freedom to slam Moustache's gun hand into the ground and appropriate it.

Kneeling on Moustache's throat, Eames turned and shot henchman number two point-blank through the head. Then he turned the pistol back on Moustache.

"Who sent you?" he asked. Moustache glared at him, tight-lipped.

"I assure you that if you give me the information I require, I will refrain from killing you," said Eames. He cocked the hammer for positive reinforcement.

"Sakong Bae," Moustache said, a drop of sweat heading toward his ear.

Eames gave him a solid knock across the temple with the butt of the pistol and felt Moustache go limp. He got up, various parts of him throbbing in protest, and walked around to the driver's side of the Audi. The man he'd shot in the ankle appeared to have passed out, which was a wise decision on his part. The keys still hung in the ignition, Eames was very grateful to see. He slid in, flicked the safety catch back on, and tossed the pistol into the passenger seat. Just this once, he was glad to find an automobile stocked with an automatic transmission.

The drive back seemed incredibly long, his shoulder and finger throbbed, and his stomach rumbled. He abandoned the Audi ten blocks from the door of the empty shop they were using as an office for this job and walked the rest of the way.

"I apologize for my tardiness," he said by way of greeting, as he walked in.

"What happened to _you_?" said Ariadne, her voice low, and her eyes widening with something approaching concern. 

"Just an attempted abduction," he said, smiling a little to let her know it was okay.

Arthur's head snapped up at his voice. He was standing behind his desk, the papers he'd been sifting through frozen in his hand, every hair in place, but faint circles under his eyes. When he caught sight of Eames, his eyebrows came together in an expression that Eames recognized as half-concern and half-thunderous anger.

He could see Arthur take his appearance in at a glance: the fragile way he was holding his arm, his finger going purple and badly needing a splint. Eames could still taste blood on his lip where he'd been punched hours ago. 

Arthur dropped the papers he was holding and strode over. He assessed Eames at closer range while Ariadne hovered uncertainly.

"Bathroom," Arthur said.

Eames led the way. His finger throbbed in time. While Arthur dug out the fully stocked first aid kit, Eames hoisted himself onto the countertop with his good arm and allowed himself to fully relax for the first time in hours.

"Shoulder first," Arthur said. Eames grunted and bent his arm at the elbow. Arthur took gentle but firm hold of it and shoved it back into place in the practiced manner of one who had seen many dislocated joints.

" _Fuck_ ," Eames rasped. It throbbed even worse now, but at least there wasn't that subtle wrongness to contend with. Arthur handed him three aspirin and Eames swallowed them dry. Then Arthur took him by the wrist and examined his finger.

"Clean break, I think," he said. "Did it feel clean? If it's not, we'll go to an ER." Eames lived by the quickness and suppleness of his hands when he wasn't performing dream espionage. Arthur was not asking an idle question. Eames thought back to when he'd snapped it.

"Clean," he grunted. "Splint it, will you?"

Arthur tightened his grip on Eames' wrist and guided it over to the sink. He let go to open the alcohol and poured a thin stream over it. 

"What happened?" asked Arthur as he pulled out the splint and medical tape.

"Bunch of bully-boys nabbed me from my hotel," he said. "Five of them. Not very sporting. Amateur at best."

"Who sent them?"

"Think it was - ow! - a mark from North Korea. Some pissant official I helped pluck some nuclear information off of five years back. I'm surprised he's still alive."

Arthur was efficient. He was nearly done wrapping the tape. Eames let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Arthur set aside the tape and reached up to touch Eames' lip with gentle fingers. Eames let him, but felt obliged to add, "It's fine. Some fists is all." Arthur leaned in very slowly and kissed Eames, his hand cupping Eames' jaw, and Eames immediately felt just a little better about the world. Too soon, Arthur stepped back, dug out a sling, and helped Eames maneuver his arm into it. He cracked one of the instant ice packs and pressed it gently to Eames' broken finger.

"Thanks," Eames said, sliding off the counter, suddenly realizing how unbelievably weary he felt. Arthur didn't step back. They were nearly chest to chest and there was a look in Arthur's eye that Eames had seen before.

"Where'd you leave them?" Arthur asked.

"Arthur," Eames began, reaching out with his good arm. Arthur stepped away. 

" _Where_ ," he demanded.

"Some place outside of town that you will _never_ find, because I'm not going to give you bloody directions. Arthur, I'm _fine_."

"This should never have fucking happened," Arthur said, furious and low. "How did they even know what city you were in? You're compromised. Give me the damn name so I can have it taken care of."

"What are we now, the mafia?" Eames let a mocking note edge his voice. "We're thieves, not hit men, Arthur."

Arthur just looked at him, brow furrowed, mouth set.

Eames sighed. "His name is Sakong Bae, and _I_ will take care of it."

Arthur turned and walked out of the bathroom. Eames gratefully emptied his bladder, washed his good hand and splashed some water in his face. He was still in his clothes from yesterday and he was still hungry, but now that he was here, he might as well put in some time on the job he'd come to do. 

When he came out, Arthur was back behind his desk, sitting this time with his long legs propped up, his chair tipped back precariously, and a dossier open in his lap. He didn't look up at Eames' entrance, but he did say, "Ariadne, take Eames down and walk him through your maze."

Ariadne smiled at him, handed him a handful of snacks and a muffin (all of which Eames inhaled), and thankfully did not ask any questions.

Eames was incredibly ready for sleep, Somnacin-induced or not.

When Eames blinked awake, he felt worlds better, even with the faint throb in shoulder and finger. The light coming in from the shop front was a bit dim, and some of the lamps had been turned on. He sat up slowly, Ariadne a moment behind him. He was still a bit hungry, but a groggy glance around showed him someone had gotten takeaway and positioned it near him. Arthur.

He jerked around at the movement in his peripheral vision, but it was just Linda, their extractor. She hadn't been here when he arrived, but he'd known she was on this job. 

"Good evening, Eames, Ariadne," she said. "How is the maze?"

"Excellent, as usual," said Eames, scanning the building for Arthur.

"Yeah, I'm going to tweak a few things, but it's pretty close," said Ariadne, standing up and stretching before going back to her models. "How is it evening already?"

"Hmmm," said Eames. How _was_ it evening? It had been just noon when he'd gotten back and surely they hadn't set the PASIV for more than two hours, real time. And it had just been them and Arthur--

"Where is Arthur?" Eames asked carefully.

Linda shrugged. "He said he had to run an errand and would be back before dinner time."

"Oh--hell!" Eames struggled to his feet, wobbled over to Arthur's desk, and yanked Arthur's laptop open.

"Is everything okay?" asked Ariadne, glue already in one hand, styrofoam in the other.

"I'll tell you in a moment," he said.

It was password locked, but Eames had known Arthur for quite a few years, and was, besides, a _very_ successful con man. Also he knew Arthur's favorite passwords. It took him a bit longer one-handed, but he managed to log in, only to find nothing: nothing in the history of his browser, no recent applications that told him anything, even the activity log was wiped clean. 

Eames' phone was back at his hotel, if his room hadn't been completely tossed. He could borrow Ariadne's phone, steal a car and - 

The shop door opened and in walked Arthur. Eames strode toward him before he'd even shut the door, eyes narrowed. Arthur's hair was perfectly in place, but if one knew what to look for they could see the scuff of dirt at the hem of his slacks, the slightly stretched collar of his jumper as if someone had yanked it out of formation, and the very slight smudge of something dark on Arthur's left knuckle. Eames was willing to bet his beretta was tucked into the back of his slacks, hidden by the jumper.

"Arthur, please tell me you didn't go off alone this afternoon to deal with _my_ problem."

"It wasn't your problem, Eames. If someone threatens part of _my_ team, it becomes my goddamn problem. And it is taken care of."

Arthur smirked at him ever so slightly, just a hint of dimple, and Eames had a moment of emotional confusion where he didn't know whether to be furious at the way Arthur had just risked his life with no back-up, or utterly turned-on by the way Arthur had just risked his life for _Eames_ and come out still looking like a spread in the nicer class of magazine.

Usually in these situations (because Arthur managed to infuriate and arouse him at the same time with astonishing frequency), they'd duck out to some place more private and have a rather violent fuck, but with Eames' injuries, that was hardly an option.

Eames grabbed him roughly by the scruff of his neck, and yanked him in for a hard kiss. Then he broke away abruptly and bit Arthur on the neck hard enough to make him yelp, and probably left a fair mark, too.

"Ow! Jesus, Eames," said Arthur rubbing the bite mark, brow furrowed.

Eames was unrepentant. 

A few days later, Eames made a few discrete inquiries as to his kidnappers. Moustache's real name, it turned out, was Robert _Goddard_ , and he had turned up in a morgue the next city over, with a broken neck. There was no conclusion in the coroner's report as to how it had become broken. He couldn't find a single scrap of information about the thugs he'd left alive. And Sakong Bae, it seemed, had suffered a fall from his very high hotel balcony, in this very city, where he'd been mysteriously visiting. The coroner ruled it a suicide, as no one was seen entering or leaving Sakong Bae's room at all, and there were no signs of foul play.

Arthur had a very nice bruise on his neck from Eames’ teeth for the next several day, but not a single other mark on him - Eames checked.


End file.
